


War it Has No Heart

by Adoxography



Series: Guided by the Beauty of Our Weapons [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Captain America is a Gay Period Drama No I Will Not Elaborate, Crying After Sex, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:25:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23170129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adoxography/pseuds/Adoxography
Summary: Bucky ships off to Europe. Steve is safe in New York. Bucky takes what comfort he can get, even if it only makes the wanting worse.
Relationships: (pre-slash), James "Bucky" Barnes/Original Male Character(s), James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: Guided by the Beauty of Our Weapons [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1665556
Comments: 12
Kudos: 42





	War it Has No Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Title shamelessly stolen from 'No One Would Riot for Less' by Bright Eyes, series title stolen from Leonard Cohen's 'First We Take Manhattan'

Libby was nice, a femme but ironic about it; her lipstick was just a little to bright, her clothes were just a touch too loud. She had an on again off-again arrangement with the butch busser Beck (“And isn’t that a tongue twister,” Libby joked, doing something lewd with her own tongue and making Bucky blush) who worked at _Mary’s Place._

She was currently off with Beck, so they met at her Brooklyn apartment, one she shared with three other lesbians and two grouchy cats (who had taken a shine to Bucky the moment he’d walked in the door.) They were currently leaving white and orange hair all over his black slacks, but there wasn’t much he could do about it. The second he arrived, they’d assaulted his legs, winding themselves around his feet until he nearly fell flat on his face. 

Ronnie, Jane’s girlfriend, offered him a beer when he sat down. He grinned at her ill-fitting white shirt—too big in the shoulders and too long in the arms—and her suspenders that held up her double cuffed trousers. Her skinny frame and short blonde hair reminded him so much of Steve that he’d felt a strange affection for her right away. Looks were about all she and Steve had in common, though. Ronnie radiated confidence, despite her diminutive height and her ill-fitting clothes; she walked with an exaggerated sailor’s swagger and her grin could split her face in two. When she slapped a poor boy cap on her head and wandered down by the docks, she looked just like an adolescent boy as long as she didn’t open her mouth to talk.

Jane was tall and fat where Ronnie was short and skinny, but like Ronnie, she had the most brilliant smile and when she saw Bucky come in the door, she wrapped her arms around him and pressed a ghost of a kiss to his cheek (“Mustn’t muss my lipstick, doll,” she said.) Jane called everyone ‘Doll’ or ‘Baby’ and was the best at patching up busted lips and scraped knuckles. Ronnie got into an awful lot of fights on Jane’s behalf and though she’d chastise her, Bucky was sure she secretly liked it a little bit. Bucky had been on the receiving end of Ronnie’s right hook the first time he’d met the two of them and mistook Jane for just another Queen who liked playing dress-up in ladies clothes. His lip had taken nearly a week to stop hurting. 

Neither Jane or Ronnie could work much outside the underground bars and clubs and the jobs were hard to come by. Sometimes some sobbing femme would drag her busted up butch to Jane’s corner of the bar and Jane would empty her purse and play nurse. Jane sometimes made money that way because, on occasion, one of the girls had money and was grateful enough to leave a tip. Ronnie would find odd jobs doing construction or manual labour where she could; she’d do any job that didn’t require paperwork, provided no one asked too many questions. 

Libby and Violet were the only two with steady jobs. Violet was a secretary and Libby worked at the makeup counter at the Sears on 4th. Today Violet was at work and Bucky wasn’t too sorry to have missed her. He liked her well enough, but she was aloof and he had a feeling she didn’t think much of him at all. 

Libby came to sit in the armchair across from him, holding her watery vodka to her damp neck. Her dark hair was escaping her careful coiff and the humid air was making her hair return to its natural curl despite the straighteners she put in it. Bucky sipped his beer straight from the bottle and tried to relax into the couch cushions, despite the meowing beasts kneading his legs. 

“When do you ship off?” Libby asked. Her red lacquered nails made an eerie sound as they drummed against the glass now resting between her knees. 

“Two weeks,” Bucky replied, unable to keep the apprehension out of his voice. 

“Someone out there sure has a sick sense of humour, I tell you what,” Libby snorted. 

“Why’s that?” 

“Well, you try and sign up with Rogers, thinking if he’s gonna do it anyways, you should be there to keep him outta trouble, then the army takes you and not him, so now he’s still in trouble and you’re getting shipped halfway across the world.” Libby sips her drink while Bucky’s fist clenches around his. She was only saying it to get a rise out of him, but it still stung. 

“I’m—” 

“Worried about him,” Libby finished. “Yeah, I know.” 

Bucky sighed into his hand. “I’m scared, Lib.” 

“Yeah? Of which part?” 

Bucky shifted in his seat, staring down at his lap. Condensation was collection on the brown glass of his beer bottle and running down his fingers. This might be his last beer before he shipped out, might be his last beer ever. 

“I’m a coward, always have been. Steve is the one who throws himself headlong into anything and damn the consequences, and I only run after him because I’m too busy trying to save his scrawny behind to be scared. If I die, who’s going to look after Steve? Who’s going to take care of him when he gets sick, and keep him from getting roughed up when he yells at guys three times his size?” Bucky finished his drink and set it down on the coffee table a little too hard. Libby picked it up and slid a coaster underneath the empty bottle. 

“And hell,” Bucky continued, “I’m gonna be gone for a long time. I can hardly leave him alone for a day without him getting into some scrape. I don’t know when I’ll be back and—” 

“I know you like to think his world revolves around you, but he is a _man_ and he’s going to do whatever he likes whether you’re there or not,” said Libby, crossing a leg over her knee and watching him over the rim of her glass. “You told me he’s got your family’s number, and they’ve got his. You said that he’s practically been adopted by your momma, so he’s not alone.” 

“So you’re trying to tell me I’ve got nothing to worry about?” Bucky asked incredulously. 

“Oh no, knowing what I do about him, you’ve got plenty to worry about,” she said with a smirk. “But I think that’s not what’s bugging you. I think you’re just going to miss him.” 

There it was, the crux of the whole thing. Bucky _was_ going to miss Steve. He’d missed him horribly when he was at basic, and that had only been a couple months. It had taken him a week to get used to sleeping alone. Falling back into their lumpy mattress with Steve snoring quietly in his ear had been more natural than breathing. Getting into bed with Steve was like coming home all over again. 

“Well yeah,” said Bucky, shrugging; his casual tone was false even to his own ears. 

“If you’re still worried though,” Libby mused, her finger tapping her chin like an actress in a silent movie, “I know your block, it’s not too far out of my way. I can always check in on him sometimes, on my way home from work. I can make sure he’s not died of pneumonia and that he’s taking his medicine.” 

“No!” Bucky exclaimed, the suggestion making his stomach flip. He paused and cleared his throat. “I mean, it’s kind of you to offer but… I’m sure he’ll be alright.” 

Libby’s eyes narrowed and she crossed her arms across her chest. “You said you were going to tell him,” she accused. 

Bucky winced, unable to meet her eye. He rubbed the back of his neck, still sticky with sweat from his walk over. “I can’t.” 

“You said yourself you might die—” 

“And if I do, I want him to remember me… I want him to remember his friend, not the pervert who tricked him into sharing a bed for over two years.” Bucky looked down at his knees. The cats had long since settled, one on either side of him. One drooled on his pant leg and the other purred loud enough to vibrate against his thigh. 

“You’re not a pervert,” Libby said, her voice firm, “There’s plenty wrong with your head but love ain’t it, so don’t you dare go saying things like that under my roof, you hear me?” 

“I’m sorry,” said Bucky, hanging his head. Libby huffed and sighed but there was genuine affection and sorrow in her expression. 

“Don’t apologize to _me_ ,” she said, then she let out an unladylike snort. “Hell, the Nazis have it easy with you. They don’t even have to fire a bullet; you’re killing yourself every day as it is.” 

* * *

It hurt when Steve left that night, their last night together, so out of spite he didn’t come home. He spent the night dancing with both of their dates. When he was invited back to Bonnie’s, he took the drinks she offered and pretended to fall asleep on her couch. He heard her disappointed little huff as she stood over him; he cracked an eyelid as she walked away and saw she was down to nothing but a silky robe. 

Bucky snuck out of Bonnie’s just after six in the morning after only a few hours sleep. His eyelids stuck together when he blinked and his skull ached. His wrinkled uniform was going to get him in trouble when he reported in later but he wasn’t going to have time to take it off and iron it. 

Even at this hour, the streets weren’t empty. Though the sun was only just rising, the harsh reek of the garbage bins wafted from the alley; a familiar stench. Bucky almost hailed a passing taxi, but his light wallet dissuaded him. Instead he walked, and by the time he passed the bakery down the road from their tiny Greenpoint apartment, the heat of the ovens was radiating out the open door. 

“Mr. Kowalchuk?” Bucky called, knocking on the doorframe. 

A series of Ukrainian curses erupted from the kitchen before a heavily accented, “We are closed,” was growled. 

“It’s only me,” Bucky shouted back, wandering into the bakery anyways. The tall wooden shelves behind the counter were beginning to fill with still-warm bread and his mouth watered at the scent. 

“Ah, you,” snapped Mr. Kowalchuk, peering out from the kitchen, “Where have you been? You look like a pig.” He gestured to Bucky’s wrinkled uniform. 

“Nowhere special,” he replied, leaning over the counter. 

Mr. Kowalchuk snorted, “Girls! Always the girls with you.” He rolled his massive shoulders, his gut slipping out from under his teeshirt and rolling over the apron cinched around his middle. “When I was young, I was the same. Be careful, you will become old and there will be no Mrs. Barnes. Then where will you be, hm?” 

Bucky laughed, “Don’t worry about me, I’ll come home a war hero and I’ll have them lining up ‘round the block.” 

“When do you leave?” Mr. Kowalchuk had massive hands; Bucky was sure that if he grabbed Steve around the shoulders, his thumbs and forefingers would be able to touch. He wiped those hands on his floury apron; great clouds of white exploded from where they clapped against sturdy thighs. 

Bucky made a show of looking up at the clock before saying, “Eleven hours. I‘m supposed to report in by 0900, though.” 

Mr. Kowalchuk cuffed him gently upside the head, leaving a flour print on his cheek. “Stupid boy, you will be late! Wait here.” 

He trundled into the back and re-emerged a minute later with a bundle wrapped in newsprint. He shoved it into Bucky’s arms hard enough that Bucky stumbled back. 

“You came to buy yesterday’s bread, yes?” 

The little deal he and Steve had worked out with Mr. Kowalchuk when they moved down the street almost five years ago, half price and first pick at the day-olds as long as they showed up before the store opened. 

“This is warm,” Bucky replied. “What do I owe you?” 

Mr. Kowalchuk snorted and slapped a meaty palm down on his shoulder. “A gift for future war hero, and your skinny friend.” 

Bucky flushed and ducked his head. His pride wanted to reject the gift—to shove cash into Mr. Kowalchuk’s hand and flee the scene—he wasn't a goddamn charity case, but he knew it would only earn him another smack upside the head and he couldn’t afford to get more flour on his precariously balanced hat. Instead, he mumbled his thanks, tucking the package under his arm. 

“You come back, or find that boy a wife to feed him.” 

Bucky grinned, despite the stab of jealousy that twisted in his gut. “Sure thing, Mr. Kowalchuk.” 

* * *

The mattress tucked into the far corner was empty, the blankets looked undisturbed, and Bucky’s shirt—hastily tossed the day before—still rested at the foot of the bed. 

“Steve?” he called, stepping further inside and kicking the door shut behind him. “Stevie?” 

The small grunt startled him and finally the lump at the kitchen table shifted, Steve’s stiff shoulders slowly pulling themselves upright until he could prop his chin in his hand and blink blearily at Bucky. 

“Did you wait up for me?” Bucky asked, his stomach turning over. 

Steve shook his head and Bucky was able to see the dark charcoal smudges on his left cheek. On the table was an unfinished drawing Bucky couldn’t quite make out from across the room. He grinned and it shifted into a smirk as he teased, “Drawing yourself a new date?” 

“Hm?” was Steve’s groggy response. 

“Since you ditched yours last night and all.” 

Bucky swaggered over, proudly presenting the package under his arm to Steve. 

“You know she only had eyes for you, Buck,” Steve grumbled, though his eyes brightened somewhat at the sight of yesterday’s newspaper. 

“Smell that,” said Bucky, slightly giddy. 

Steve took the package in his hands and his eyes grew wider. “It’s warm! Bucky, how much did you—” 

“Not a cent, gift from Mr. Kowalchuck. He thinks you’re too skinny.” Bucky nodded at the package. “Go on, open it.” 

“Mr. Kowalchuk thinks bread will cure asthma?” Steve scoffed, though his hands shook with excitement as he peeled back the layers of newsprint. 

“No, he wants to marry you off instead, get you a good wife to fatten you up.” Bucky elbowed him gently. “Says he’s got a beautiful cousin, looks just like him, scraggly chin hairs and all.” 

Steve smacked him and Bucky made a show of wincing in pain. 

Inside all the wrapping were poppyseed cakes and _oreshki,_ as well as a loaf of dense bread, still warm from the oven. Steve shoved the package at him. “Take your pick,” he said. 

Bucky didn’t need more than a split second to decide before his hand darted out and he claimed a poppyseed cake. The cake was warm and sticky on his fingers; he slowly raised it to his lips and savoured his first bite. He closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. “Jesus, that’s good.” 

There was a mumble of assent from Steve. When Bucky opened his eyes, he nearly dropped his cake. Steve had bitten his hollow cookie in half and was scooping out the creamy filling with his tongue. He tore his eyes away before he was caught staring and found the clock hanging over the sink. 

“Shit.” Bucky leapt to his feet, shoving the rest of the cake in his mouth. 

Steve followed his gaze and frowned. “When do you have to report in?” 

“Too soon,” Bucky replied, dusting the remaining crumbs from his trousers. “I’ve gotta run.” 

“Aw Buck, you just got home.” Steve’s eyes were wide, but as soon as Bucky met them, Steve looked down at his lap. 

_Home_. When was the next time he’d see home? Their shitty one room apartment was nothing, just four walls and a door that locked. Home was a pair of blue eyes and long artist’s fingers. Home was the breath shared between them as they slept side by side on the mattress with their noses almost touching. Home was Steve’s hands between his as he warmed them during the coldest winter months, when Steve would get so numb he couldn’t even hold a pencil. 

Bucky had his hand on Steve’s shoulder. He bent low so he could see those bright eyes again, one last time before he left. He found the returning gaze defiant, fierce. He was leaning forward and he only caught himself in time to change the trajectory, planting a familial kiss to Steve’s hairline. He ruffled Steve’s bedhead as he righted himself, laughing it off. 

“Try not to get the tar beat outta you while I’m gone.” 

“No promises,” Steve shot back with a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. 

* * *

France must have been turned ugly by the war. He couldn’t believe anyone could wax poetic about a country that was nothing but miles upon miles of thick mud and burned out forests. The cities were in even worse shape. He spent nights in the ruins of central squares, patrolling the alleys between crumbling buildings reduced to ash and rubble. He spent his days marching inside the treadmarks of enormous tanks that would get trapped in the churning mud.

Nights spent in cities were better than those spent huddled with his squadron in the shadows of the ancient trees that made up the dark forests they were forced to hike through to avoid detection. At least the cities were drier. Bucky quickly learned the value of dry anything. He cursed France, cursed the French, and cursed the whole miserable fucking war as he spent days marching in soggy socks, toes freezing in his sqelching boots. 

That was only the first two weeks, and from the stories he’d heard from soldiers who’d arrived earlier, he could only expect it to get worse. 

Still, it wasn’t so bad during the days when he could just focus on how fucking miserable he was, as the mud sucked at his boots and made his legs tire twice as fast. But once night fell, he was alone with his thoughts. He was alone with nothing but his blanket and the freezing ground. Alone. There were no hands opposite his for him to reach out and grasp during the night, those frozen digits that he would cup inside his own until they no longer felt like they’d fall off. There were no equally cold feet rubbing up against his ankle in the middle of the night, making him jump and yell. There was no one to lean in close and whisper to him, breath hot on his cheek. There was no Steve.

The 107th was stationed close enough to no-man’s-land that it was almost impossible to sleep at first. Bucky would wake at odd times during the night to nothing but an overwhelming sense of impending doom, as if there were a German soldier already standing at the end of his cot with his finger on the trigger. 

It probably said something about him that killing was easier to get used to than sleeping. After the first few skirmishes and a handful of near misses he found it all rather routine, though he hated close quarters combat. He hated the way someone else’s blood felt on his skin, warm and wet like spit or piss. 

Despite the ache in his chest, the hollow place under his ribs that was reserved just for Steve, he was glad Steve wasn’t here. He was glad Steve didn’t spend his days combing dense forests for German spies. He was glad Steve wasn’t there to feel the fresh spray of arterial blood as an unseen enemy dropped from the branch above to jam a knife into Robbie Stockholm’s neck. He was glad Steve didn’t see Bucky react just as quickly, tackling the man to the ground and smashing his face against a tree root until even the man’s own mother wouldn’t recognize him. 

* * *

Corporal Jack Sharkey belonged to another squadron serving under Sergeant William Little—who was anything but. Sergeant Little was at least six feet tall; his feet dangled off the edge of his cot and his shoulders were so large he had to sleep on his side to fit at all. He had a square brutish face and an underbite that added to the impression that Little was an oversized bulldog that had learned to walk on his hind legs. 

Jack Sharkey was significantly smaller than his squadmates; he stood at a diminutive five foot five inches and when he stood at attention, he barely reached the chins of the rest of his squadron. It seemed a cruel joke to put him in a squadron with relative giants, but Jack never seemed particularly bothered by it. Bucky had to wonder how he was even allowed to enlist at all until he saw him coming back from the showers with a towel wrapped ‘round his wide shoulders, water still drying on the broad expanse of his bare torso and dripping from the sparse hair that ran from chest to groin. His ill fitting uniform hid the body of a wrestler, all compact muscle and brutal strength. Bucky had to look away, biting the inside of his cheek.

The problem with Jack Sharkey was his fucking mouth. He had a beautiful mouth, a pink pouting cupid’s bow that would be at home on a tragic Caravaggio boy, a mouth as pretty as a painting until he opened it. His lips would twist up into a devilish smirk and then he’d start talking; Bucky was liable to kill him himself when he started talking. Jack Sharkey must’ve wanted a new face, one with a busted nose and a crooked jaw and a few less teeth. Jack Sharkey didn’t seem to have any concept of ‘Lost Causes’; it was like he didn’t know that everyone was bigger and stronger than him. Even after he’d had the tar beaten out of him, he’d still be mouthing off like he wanted to fucking die. 

Bucky hated him. He hated his stupid round boy’s face and the stupid tangle of pale brown curls that seemed to grow faster than he could keep them regulation cut. He hated the mess of freckles that covered his ruddy cheeks and round button nose—the nose Bucky was sure was going to end up irreparably mashed by someone's fist. He hated his laugh, loud and delighted, like he was surprised every time that it had been pulled from him. He hated that in a room full of men twice his size, Jack Sharkey was the only one Bucky could see, his eyes drawn to that manic energy like he was a beacon in a storm. He hated Jack Sharkey and he wanted him all at the same time—wanted to punch his stupid, beautiful mouth, and then taste the blood on on his lips where it split open against his teeth. 

The first time Bucky saw Jack, Jack was getting his ass handed to him behind the mess tent. He was surrounded by three guys, spitting blood from his mouth and laughing, “You hit like my sister, and she’s twelve.” He took a swing at the man on his left; his fist was easily batted away—it was a weak attempt—and the man slammed his knee into Jack’s stomach. Jack fell to his knees but he just grinned up at his attacker. “Come on big guy, that all you got?” 

“Shut the fuck up, Sharkey,” sighed one of the other guys, his foot connecting with Jack’s gut. 

Bucky was seconds away from walking over when a shout rang out and the men scattered. Sergeant Little approached, gravel crunching under his boots as he came to tower over Jack’s wheezing form. Bucky thought Little would help him to his feet, but instead, the toe of his boot shoved Jack onto his back and he sneered, “You gonna learn your lesson and stay down?”

Bucky thought Jack might say something, might cough out a ‘Yes Sir’ and wait until Little was gone before crawling to his feet. Instead, Jack propped himself up on his elbows—Bucky could see his bloody grin even from where he stood—and he laughed, “I’ll learn mine once Browning learns his.” This earned him a boot to the jaw and while he was clutching his face Little leaned over to spit on his cheek. 

“Keep your mouth shut and fall in line, Corporal.” 

Little left, but Bucky watched a little longer to make sure Jack got to his feet before entering the mess tent. 

He found out later that the men had been accosting a French village girl, too young by far for any of these men to be looking at. One of them—Browning—had his hand up her skirt when Jack had charged them. He’d ended up with a fat lip, bruised ribs, and two black eyes for his trouble, but the girl had gotten away and hopefully learned that American soldiers could be just as bad as the Germans. 

“Little was just going to watch,” Jack snarled, his pretty mouth twisting with rage, cigarette dangling from his lips. He passed it to Bucky who savoured the heat in his lungs and the idea that he could taste Jack’s mouth in the smoke. 

“You could have gotten help?” Bucky suggested, passing the cigarette back. 

“And by the time I’d gotten back, they’d have already… Guys like that think they can just do what they like, take what they like,” Jack spat, smoke seeping from between his lips and out his nose. He looked like a red faced dragon all full of righteous fury. 

“Yeah…” Bucky quietly agreed, holding his breath as his heart pounded in his throat. 

* * *

Bucky had gotten in the habit of watching Jack. He hadn’t meant to. He knew it was stupid and despite being taller than him, Bucky was absolutely sure that Jack would best him if it came to blows; if Jack caught him staring, Bucky was sure it would. No one wanted some queer sizing them up when they might have to share a tent. 

The first time they talked was when Bucky dragged him out of a fight in the very same mess tent he’d been shitkicked behind. Bucky didn’t hear how it started; the conversation was in low tones between Jack and Private Browning. Jack had a mean looking grin and was hissing something angrily between his teeth and Browning was sneering back. The first thing he heard was Jack loudly announcing, “I’ll say hi to your mother for you while we make her a better son.” 

Bucky was already on his feet when Browning lunged, knocking over plates and cups and scattering dinner slop as he vaulted himself over the table. His fist connected with Jack’s cheek, but Jack was ready and delivered two rabbit punches right into Browning’s gut, knocking the wind out of him. Jack brought his knee up to Browning’s stomach while he was doubled over and Browning reeled, ass landing on the bench Jack had so recently occupied. The men around them scattered, forming a tight circle around them. One of Browning’s buddies was helping him to his feet and pushing him back into the fight when Bucky elbowed his way in. 

“What the hell is going on here!” he demanded, as if he had much more authority than anyone here; two of the men in the crowd were Sergeants, as well. 

“This little punk—” Browning started, but Bucky shut him up with a glare. 

“Sorry, Sergeant, won’t happen again,” said Jack with absolutely no contrition and a cheeky grin. 

“You’re damn right it won’t. You’re coming with me,” said Bucky, as stern as he could muster. He grabbed Jack’s arm and dragged him from the tent. A handful of jeers followed them, but Bucky kept his back straight, his fingers tightening around Jack’s wrist as Jack waved back and said, “Goodnight ladies, don’t wait up for me.” 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Bucky demanded when he sat him down in the mercifully empty first aid tent. All the recently wounded had been carted back to proper hospitals a few days ago. 

Jack tried to stand and Bucky slapped his hand down on his shoulder, keeping him on the cot. Jack shrugged. His mouth was starting to swell and blood dripped from his lip down his chin; an old scab had been split open by Browning’s fist. He was only wearing his fatigues and a white teeshirt that stretched tight across his strong chest—there were fresh bloodstains dotting it, but Bucky was unsure which were Jack’s and which were Browning’s. His dog tags dangled around his neck. Bucky jerked his hand away as he started to notice the firm muscle clenched under his palm. 

“Sorry, Sergeant,” said Jack, managing only to look a little less smug than he had in the mess tent. “Like I said, it won’t happen again.” 

“You’re full of shit, Sharkey,” Bucky snapped. Jack’s head jerked up at that, a frown creasing his brow. 

“How’d you know my name?” he asked. 

Bucky’s throat was tight and his skin started to heat, all the way from the small of his back up to his cheeks. “Little pointed you out,” Bucky lied. “Said you were trouble.” 

Jack snorted, “Of course he did.” He paused, chin tilting up so he could meet Bucky’s eyes, the corners of his soft, pink mouth curled up into the first sincere smile Bucky had seen from him. “I didn’t catch your name,” he said. Bucky’s name was written on his uniform, the letters staring Jack right in the face. Jack even had the audacity to glance down at them before looking right back up, that soft smile never leaving his lips. 

Bucky’s heart pounded a loud _thud-thud-thud_ as it hurled itself against his ribcage. “Sergeant James Barnes,” he managed to croak out, his throat dry. He stepped backwards, clasping his hands at the small of his back. 

Jack didn’t say anything, his expression thoughtful. Bucky took the opportunity to grab a cotton ball and wet it with alcohol. He grabbed Jack’s chin, maybe a bit rougher than necessary and dabbed at his lip. Jack hissed, but stayed still, his eyes never once leaving Bucky’s face. 

“You can call me Jack,” he said as Bucky turned to toss the red-orange stained cotton; the wound was clean and the bleeding was almost stopped. 

“Keep out of trouble and I won’t have to call you anything,” Bucky replied. They stood staring at one another. Bucky crossed his arms over his chest. After longer than was comfortable, Jack grinned his bright devil’s grin and laughed. 

* * *

At first, Bucky thought thinking about Steve would make things worse, that the ache of missing him would be too much to bear when all this misery threatened to crush him. Sometime around his fourteenth hour hidden on a muddy hill—wet seeping through his uniform and chilling him to the bone—he found himself thinking of home. Though his eye never strayed from his scope, and his focus never wavered, Steve came, unbidden, into his thoughts. 

“You look like you could use a drink,” said his imaginary Steve. 

“Four, actually,” he replied in his head. 

In his mind, Steve sat at their kitchen table with his sketchbook in hand, though he put down his pencil to offer Bucky a pull of cheap whiskey, straight from the bottle. 

“I miss you,” Bucky told him. 

“I know,” Steve replied. 

“I love you,” Bucky told him. 

“I know,” Steve replied.

* * *

Jack did not stay out of trouble. Bucky found him in the showers a week later, blood streaming down his chin from a swollen nose. He sat naked with his knees tucked up to his chest and one hand over his mouth. It was well past midnight and anyone not on duty was tucked away in their cots or else had snuck out to the French village a few miles west to jam rations and francs into the hands of desperate villagers in exchange for sex or contraband. 

Jack and Bucky were alone. The only light was the dimmed kerosine lamp hanging above their heads and it cast ghastly shadows on Jack’s sweet face. He looked like an extra in a horror film, all blood, and dark, hollow eyes. 

“Jesus Christ, what did you do this time?” Bucky hissed, falling to his knees beside him. He didn’t much care that he was getting his pants wet, or that he was staining his towel bright crimson as he wiped the blood from Jack’s chest. 

“I tripped,” said Jack. Bucky shoved Jack’s hands aside and tilted his head towards the light. 

“Sure ya did,” Bucky grumbled. “Doesn’t look broken, but it’s hard to tell with all that blood. Can you stand?” Jack nodded and took Bucky’s offered hand. He was a little unsteady on his feet, through Bucky blamed that on the blood loss. 

“It probably feels worse than it is,” Bucky told him, turning the shower on and stepping out of the spray, though it soaked the bottom of his fatigues. Jack let out a strangled shout at the sudden shock of cold water. 

Slowly, and with Bucky’s help, they rinsed away the blood and after a while, the water ran clean. Bucky searched for Jack’s towel and his clothes, but found no sign of them. 

“Ran off with your things, didn’t they?” 

“No idea what you’re talking about, Sir. I must have forgotten them.” Jack grinned and it looked less ghastly now his teeth weren’t stained pink—though he was still as pale as a ghost. 

“Sure, just walked naked from your tent. I see how it is.” 

Bucky grumbled and sighed, but he fetched a clean towel and a spare set of fatigues from his own tent, the ones with the tear in the knee he’d yet to get around to mending. 

Coming back into the shower tent, he was confronted with Jack Sharkey, naked as the day he was born, leaning against the tent pole bolted to the middle. He had one muscled leg canted ever so slightly so his hip jutted out and his strong arms crossed over his chest rather than hiding his privates. Bucky’s mouth was dry as he jammed the towel into Jack’s arms. 

“I think you’re _trying_ to get yourself killed,” said Bucky, turning to leave. 

“It’s not like that, Sarge, honest,” said Jack. 

When Bucky looked over his shoulder Jack had wrapped the towel around his waist. “Yeah? What’s it like then?” he asked. 

“It’s just guys like that,” Jack said the next morning through a mouthful of oatmeal, “they throw their weight around and act like no one can touch ‘em, they’re just gonna keep pushing everyone else around until someone cuts them down to size.” 

Tucked behind the mess tent, Bucky sipped his coffee and smoked his cigarette while Jack talked. He’d come out back for a quiet breakfast, but he found he didn’t so much mind being interrupted when it was Jack doing it. Christ, that was a dangerous thought, but despite being as boneheaded as they came, Jack was a handsome devil. He could talk a nun out of her habit and then some if he put his mind to it—of that Bucky was sure. He looked so much younger than everyone else, though Bucky knew from his personnel file that he was only a couple years younger than Bucky himself. 

“And you think you’re doing a good job of that, do you?” Bucky retorted, pulling his cigarette out of his mouth so he could take a sip of his coffee—somehow too bitter and too weak at the same time. 

“I’d be doing better if they’d stop ganging up,” said Jack, shrugging. “They’re just cowards, bullies. You catch one on his own and he’d turn tail and run once you started swinging.” 

“Sergeant Little is going to see you brought up on disciplinary charges if you keep this up,” Bucky told him truthfully. He’d heard Little talking about it with their CO. 

“Sergeant Little lives up to his name; he’s a small man with a smaller dick. He’s just like the rest of them,” Jack snapped, dropping his empty bowl. The spoon clattered against the ceramic. “You gonna eat that?” Jack pointed to Bucky’s own half finished bowl, going cold in the morning air. 

“Nah, go ahead.” Bucky nudged the bowl over and then extended his cigarette as well. “Finish this one, too. I’ve got somewhere to be.” 

“Thanks, Sarge,” said Jack, grinning like a kid, dimples appearing in his boyish cheeks. 

“You can call me Bucky.”

* * *

Bucky was alone in his squad’s tent when Jack burst in, waving his new assignment in Bucky’s face. 

“What the hell is this?” Jack demanded, shoving the paper at Bucky. 

Bucky sat on his cot, one boot on his knee as he spit polished it with a worn rag. The other, shining bright enough to be a mirror, sat to his left. 

“Unless you can’t read, I’m pretty sure you know exactly what that is,” he replied, not looking up from his task. He’d been pretty sure his request would be approved, Little would be glad to see Sharkey gone and he was sure their CO would be happy to see the fights die down. 

“Why?” 

“I think you’re a good soldier,” Bucky lied. “I think you’re wasted on Little,” he added, this time telling the truth, or at least part of it. 

When Bucky looked up, he saw Jack’s anger for what it really was. His tense shoulders and red cheeks, his tight jaw and tighter fists told the story of Jack’s wounded pride. “I can look after myself,” said Jack. 

“The thing is,” said Bucky, slowly putting down his boot, “you don’t have to.” 

Those words brought an ache so familiar to his chest it must have shown on his face since Jack’s anger was gone in a flash and, instead, he bent down and put a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. 

“Are you alright?” he asked. 

“Yeah,” said Bucky, lying through his teeth.

* * *

He’d written a dozen letters to Steve and scrapped every single one of them. He had nothing to say that he wanted Steve to hear, and Steve would smell a lie a mile away. In the end, he just wrote: 

_Weather is awful, wish you were here ha-ha. Stay out of trouble._ ~~_I miss you_ ~~

_~~Love~~ Bucky_

For the last part, he crossed out everything but his name until there was nothing but a black stain where the damning words had once been. He had no way of knowing that by the time he’d sent it, Steve was long gone from Brooklyn.

* * *

After almost six months in the field and more bloody skirmishes than Bucky cared to count, his squad was being sent to London for some R&R. He’d lost three of his squadron and they’d yet to be replaced, but they were up a man since Jack’s transfer, so filling their ranks wasn’t a priority. 

During the boat ride across the channel, Bucky smoked over the railing and Jack stood beside him, stealing drags off his cigarette when he could snatch it from Bucky’s fingers. He nudged Bucky with his shoulder and smiled. “What are you going to do?” 

Bucky had thought about dancing. If it were New York on a Friday night he might have. Instead, he was halfway across the world and so fucking tired he thought that if he closed his eyes tonight, he might never wake up again. “I think I’d like to get so blindingly drunk that they send me home for disorderly conduct.” 

Jack laughed and slapped his back, popping the pilfered cigarette back in Bucky’s mouth. “I think we can manage that.” 

Six hours later, Bucky found himself in a cellar under the Blue Empress hotel finishing his fourth drink and being handed another by none other than Jack motherfucking Sharkey who had made good on his word. He was well on his way to drunk, though he was sure his drinks were more water than anything else. He exhausted himself dancing; the women outnumbered the men three to one and handsome young soldiers had their pick of any young lady in the house. He hadn’t even meant to, but when Jack pointed out the gaggle of girls giving him eyes and the desperate state of dance partners, Bucky felt a small thrill go up his spine. 

“How’s this for R&R?” asked Jack, tossing back his drink. He was red cheeked with a grin splitting his face in two. His hairline was sweat damp from the hot room and his curls were escaping the shellack he’d so carefully combed through it hours before. 

“I need some air,” Bucky replied, finishing his own drink and patting his pockets until he found his cigarettes. 

Bucky hadn't been sure if he would, but Jack followed him outside. Cigarette dangling from his mouth, Bucky searched for his matches and cursed when he came up empty handed. Jack’s lighter clicked open and Bucky leaned into the offered flame. 

“Thanks,” he mumbled around his smoke. 

“You’re welcome,” Jack replied, lighting his own cigarette. 

They smoked in silence. Bucky was warm all the way from his toes to his ears, giddy and dizzy from the drink and the heat of the club. His heart hadn’t stopped pounding though he’d had plenty of time to catch his breath after the last dance. 

Beside him, Jack was uncharacteristically quiet. The line of his square jaw seemed harder in the pale moonlight, his face illuminated briefly as he took another drag of his cigarette and the cherry glowed bright orange in the dark. Jack caught him staring and his mouth turned upwards into a smirk. 

Bucky’s heart caught in his throat. He dropped his cigarette, crushing it with his heel as he turned to go back inside, but a hand grabbed his wrist and tugged him back. Maybe if he’d been less drunk, maybe if the grasp had been less gentle he might have fled, but instead, he turned back. 

Jack let go of his arm and placed a hand over Bucky’s chest, right over his beating heart. He paused, and Bucky barely had it in him to nod before Jack was dropping his cigarette and grabbing him by his lapels, dragging him down for a fierce kiss. 

The kiss couldn’t have lasted more than a few seconds, but to Bucky it seemed both an eternity and an instant all at once. Arousal and terror made his skin throb where Jack touched him and when the kiss ended, all he wanted to do was dive back into Jack’s mouth and lick his way inside. The stale flavour of cheap liquor and cigarette smoke was the only thing he wanted to taste again. 

“Let’s get out of here,” Jack whispered against his lips. Bucky kissed him so hard he thought his mouth would bruise. 

“Yeah, yeah, alright.”

* * *

Jack took Bucky to an apartment building a short cab ride from the Blue Empress. The key was hidden in an envelope taped to the bottom of the mailbox; how Jack knew about it was another question, but Bucky’s mouth was too dry to form the words. 

The apartment itself was only one room, not unlike the one he shared with Steve. A neatly made bed in the corner next to the kitchen. A dining table with one chair. Bucky could almost see Steve sitting at it, cigarette dangling from his lips as he poured himself a drink with charcoal black fingers, sketchbook discarded in a huff of frustration. 

Jack—who had been rifling through the kitchen drawers—stopped, the floorboards creaking under his feet as he slotted in behind Bucky, wrapping his arms around his middle, his chin resting on Bucky’s shoulder. 

“Are you alright?” he asked, his lips so close to Bucky’s bare neck that the heat from his breath had him shivering. 

“Yeah,” Bucky said, forcing a smile. 

“Hey,” said Jack in a low, soft voice; a small frown creased his brow. He moved so he could face Bucky, reaching up to place a palm on his cheek; his thumb stroked his jaw with such tenderness Bucky felt his eyes prickle. “Come here.” 

Bucky obliged and Jack kissed him again, heartbreakingly gentle. His fingers found the hair at the nape of Bucky’s neck, blunt nails caressing his scalp. His hands were rough like Bucky’s but with wide, flat palms and strong fingers. Jack was solid, a hard body pressed against his own, tangible, real. His chapped lips chased Bucky’s with soft kisses until Bucky melted into him, letting those strong arms and broad shoulders hold him up even as he towered over Jack. 

“You don’t have to think about anything else right now,” Jack promised him, pressing a stubble rough kiss to the corner of Bucky’s mouth. “We’re safe.” 

Incredible as it was, Bucky believed him. Here they were in the middle of London, an air raid siren primed to go off any moment. Here they were, a day away from hell itself, the front lines growing closer as the hours grew shorter. Here they were, one faulty lock or nosy neighbour from prison. Bucky hadn’t felt this safe since he was a child, since before he knew the consequences for the things he wanted. 

“Jack,” Bucky sighed into his mouth, “Jack, take me to bed.” 

Bucky had been with men before, in a way. He’d had rough hands jammed down his pants in dark alleyways and returned the favour in kind, swapping rough, hasty kisses in the shadows. That wasn’t to say he was naive; he knew the mechanics, he’d had hot promises of future pleasures growled in his ear while another hand pinned him to the brick wall. Those promises had often been what drove him over the edge when he was alone in bed, Steve out, but his smell surrounding everything. Bucky would come with his nose pressed to Steve’s pillow and fantasies of his thighs clamped around Steve’s slender waist. 

Bucky had been with men before, but he’d never been with a man like Jack. Jack, who took him by the hand and pressed him into the mattress, climbing on top of him to pepper his jaw with kisses, who unbuttoned his shirt and pressed his lips to every inch of skin he exposed. Jack was nothing like the men in the bars or in the alleys. Jack had all the time in the world and he seemed content to savour it. 

“Do you know how handsome you are?” Jack asked, pushing hair from Bucky’s sweat sticky brow. They were both down to their undershirts and Bucky’s was rucked halfway up his middle, Jack’s hot palm pressed underneath it. 

“I do now,” Bucky replied with a cheeky grin. Jack kissed it off his lips, laughing into his mouth. 

“When you made me sit down, that day after the fight, your hand on my shoulder and that stern look you get when you’re trying to act commanding, I looked up at you and I thought, ‘I wish I could have him’.” Jack’s hand caressed his side, sliding down until he found Bucky’s belt. “I thought, ‘my god that’s the most beautiful man I’ve seen in my life’. And then you had to go and be so kind to me. How the hell was I supposed to keep myself from wanting you, hm?” 

Bucky let out a choked gasp as Jack’s hand slipped inside his pants and grasped him. 

“If you’d kissed me then, I think I’d have kissed you back,” Bucky confessed, fingers digging into Jack’s shoulders. 

Jack was the first man to fuck him. His fantasies came to life slow at first; Jack wouldn’t rush even as Bucky kicked at his lower back with his heels, urging him inside. The problem with Jack was that he was so achingly, painfully sweet. The tender way he pressed into him had something hard and painful knotting in Bucky’s sternum as they rocked together. He urged Jack to go faster, to hold him down and _have him_ , and when Jack finally complied, it was so blindingly good he forgot about the sick, guilty tightness in his throat. When Jack fucked him the way he wanted him to, Bucky forgot everything except the heat of Jack’s skin, the handsome lines of his boyish face. His world narrowed to the places their skin pressed together and the slide of the sweat that collected between them. 

Afterwards, their damp bodies cooling on the mattress, Bucky met Jack’s bright green eyes; they sparkled with delight and the corners crinkled up with his smile. Jack reached between them to cup Bucky’s cheek and press a sweat salty kiss to his lips. 

“Christ, it would be so easy to fall in love with you,” said Jack. 

It was the reverence in Jack’s voice that broke him. Bucky pressed his forehead to Jack’s chest, hiding his face under Jack’s chin. He squeezed his eyes tight in hopes that the stinging would fade and he could compose himself before they had to leave. He stayed as still as he could, but his body trembled with each breath and it only had Jack wrapping strong arms around his shoulders, pulling him closer. 

“Hey now,” said Jack, lips pressed to Bucky’s hairline. “It’s alright.” 

Bucky shook his head, but he couldn’t make himself speak. His mouth opened, but all that came out were wet choking noises as he swallowed his sobs. He was drooling on Jack’s chest as his lips rubbed against his skin, but his jaw wouldn’t close. His cheeks became wet as the tears spilling from his stinging eyes mixed with the dampness of his own spit. His shoulders hitched as he sucked in pathetic gasps; staying silent had his throat aching. 

It couldn’t have been that long, but Bucky felt as though he’d cried for hours. It felt like he was making up for a lifetime of dry eyes, though he must have cried since childhood, he was sure he had. He cried so long, he wasn’t sure why he was doing it anymore, only he couldn’t stop and fighting it hurt worse than the humiliation of release. 

“Jack,” he finally moaned, his words wet from lips still mashed against solid flesh. 

“Yeah,” Jack replied. He unwrapped his arms from around Bucky’s shoulders; his hands slid up his neck to cup his cheeks so Bucky was forced to meet his eyes. Bucky tried to pull away, to hide his face again, but Jack stayed firm; his soft mouth turned down in a gentle frown. 

“I’m…” _Sorry,_ he wanted to say, but his voice cracked so the words died in his throat. 

“Did I hurt you?” Jack asked, his voice so timid it didn’t seem to belong to the same man at all. 

“Christ, _no_ ,” Bucky replied. His hands found Jack’s wrists, his arms, his shoulders, his neck, his jaw; Jack’s stubble was rough under his palms. 

“Tell me,” Jack pleaded. His thumbs wiped stray tears from Bucky’s flushed cheeks. That almost had Bucky crying all over again. He nodded and swallowed, then had to do it all over again when he couldn’t force himself to speak. 

“I wish you wouldn’t be so kind to me,” said Bucky. His voice scraped his raw throat and his words came out like they were spoken through wet gravel. “I’ve done nothing to earn that kind of thing from you. I’ve done you so wrong.” 

“I ain’t hurting,” Jack promised. “You’ve been good to me, Buck.” 

It was the way he said his name—it was the sweet sound of that syllable rolling off his tongue so natural like he hadn’t even thought about it—that had pain lancing through his chest as his ribs tightened around his lungs. He didn’t know his heart could break over so many things at the same time, and he never thought he’d be able to feel it like a real wound. 

“I should’ve said… I should never have even looked at you the way I have. I should’ve told you, when you kissed me. I really should… shit,” Bucky swore, biting the inside of his cheek until it hurt enough he thought he’d taste blood. 

“Jesus, you act like wanting’s a crime in itself,” Jack chuckled. His mouth, his beautiful Carivaggio boy’s mouth, turned up in a soft smile. Bucky wanted to scream when he saw relief in Jack’s eyes; he wanted to grab him and shake him until he understood. 

“Isn’t it?” Bucky demanded. 

Jack paused before he asked cautiously, “You got someone waiting for you back home? You wouldn’t be the first married man to do something like this, you know.” One of Jack’s hands had moved from Bucky’s cheek and was rubbing slow circles on his shoulder, a comforting caress that had Bucky wanting to curl into himself until he disappeared entirely. 

“It’s not like that,” Bucky sighed. He turned his face so his mouth found the palm still cupping his cheek. He didn’t know what he wanted to do by kissing Jack’s palm, but maybe it was something like asking for forgiveness. 

“You gotta tell me what it’s like,” Jack said, all patience and gentleness like Bucky wasn’t ruining everything. “I won’t know unless you tell me.” 

There was never going to be a time or a place where speaking the words out loud wouldn’t be the worst thing Bucky had ever done. Saying it was never going to be painless, but _Christ,_ it hurt just thinking about it. Once he said it, he could never take it back; he could never bury it in the hollow place under his ribs and hold it there until it was, once again, only a dull but persistent ache. There was never going to be a good time, but Jack already had one of his worst secrets, and since he wanted it, it only seemed right and fair he got this one too. 

“I’ve been in love with a boy as long as I can remember. I know it hasn’t been, but it feels like I’ve loved him my whole life,” he started, and found that once he began he couldn’t stop. The words tumbled out of his mouth before he had time to think better of them, and Jack didn’t stop him. There was no condemnation, no anger, not from Jack, not even when Bucky told him, “You’re so much like him, I didn’t even realize but you’re both… You’re so fucking strong, I don’t know if I could ever be that strong.” 

When Bucky was finished—or when he finally stopped talking, there were so many things unsaid, but he only had his own limited words to say them with—Jack sighed and said, “I don’t know why you’re so determined to hate yourself.” 

When Bucky tried to argue, Jack kissed him. It was a cruel way to silence him if only because it felt so good. It was a cruel thing to do because it was exactly what Bucky wanted. 

“You never made me any promises,” Jack told him, “And you haven’t made any to him either, at least not as far as he knows. You’re the only one being torn up.” 

It would be nearly a century before Bucky realized Jack lied to him. No, Bucky had not made promises, and since there were no promises made there were none to break; but Bucky was not the only one with a broken heart, and he was not the only one being torn in half.

* * *

Italy wasn’t much better than France, though it was drier. God knew what they were doing down there, surely there had to be units closer than the 107th, but apparently Azzano had to be liberated and it had to be done by _them_. 

He never thought marching with Jack could be tense—he had been easy company up until then—but since that night in the apartment, things had become so much more complicated. Bucky could hardly look at him when they were out with the other men; outwardly nothing had changed between them, but the thought of being around him now filled Bucky with dread. Guilt gnawed at Bucky from the inside out and turned him hard and mean. He snapped at his unit and kept his head down, brows drawn together in a tight frown. 

It felt as if someone could just look at him and see the places where Jack had touched him, lit up like someone pointed a spotlight at his hips, his neck, his thighs. It felt like the lines of his body had changed and anyone might be able to read sex in the curve of his spine. 

“Bucky, are you alright?” he asked one evening joining Bucky on watch. Bucky cast about, but they were alone. Jack lit a cigarette and passed it across, and when their fingers touched, Jack let them linger and Bucky didn’t pull away. Bucky took a drag and let out a long sigh, though all it did was make his chest feel that much heavier. 

“I’m fine,” he lied, passing the cigarette back to Jack. They were alone and it was dark so he risked taking a step closer so their shoulders almost brushed. It sent a thrill up his spine and had heat pooling in his groin. Despite everything, he wanted Jack just as badly as he had that night, he wanted to taste him again, to feel those hands on his bare skin. He wanted Jack to put a hand on his shoulder and guide him to his knees, to make him blow him right here behind that tree. 

But he couldn’t say any of that, so, instead, he let himself stand too close and not close enough, breathing in the scent of his cigarette smoke and the earthy smell of his sweat damp uniform. There was a line of skin on the back of his neck, peeking out from under his collar; Bucky wanted to drag his tongue across it and taste the salt-sweat and bury his nose in his hair. 

“You’re upset about London,” Jack surmised with a shrug. “I’m sorry.” 

“Why are you sorry?” Bucky reached to take the cigarette back, but instead found himself with fingers wrapping around Jack’s wrist, thumb pressed over his pulse so he could feel the steady beat of it. Jack pulled his hand away, a gentle tug and Bucky was forced to let go. 

“What do you want from me, Buck?” Jack asked, his voice a low murmur. There was disappointment in his voice, a quiet sadness in his tone. 

“I can’t… I don’t know,” Bucky stumbled, moving away from Jack. He could feel the distance between them tugging at his shoulder. “More than I should.” 

“So is it him, then?” Bucky had heard Jack angry before, but it had never been directed at him. There was no question of who Jack was talking about. There was only one him. There would only ever be one him. 

“No,” said Bucky, and he meant it, he hated himself for his infidelity, but Steve… Steve wasn’t here, and Steve didn’t want the things Jack wanted, things Bucky was discovering he desperately needed. “Not… not like you’re thinking.” 

“You’re real good at telling me what things aren’t, why don’t you try telling me what they _are_ for a change?” He didn’t sound so angry now, more tired. Bucky hated that more than anything, because Jack was right, Bucky was being a fuckup, and if Jack got too tired, he might stop coming back. Bucky needed him to come back because he wasn’t strong enough yet to go after him, go after _anyone_. 

“I’m scared,” said Bucky, arms crossed over his chest, his fingers dug into his jacket hard enough that it hurt. “And it’s not just of _them_.” Bucky jerked his head back to the camp. “I’m scared of… Christ, I’m a fucking coward. I’m scared of everything. I’m scared we’ll be caught, I’m scared of what wanting you means, I’m scared to admit that… For so long everything was _him_ , my whole fucking world, one man, one boy…”

Jack grimaced, kneeling down to stub out the end of the cigarette and stick the butt in his pocket. “You think I’m _not_ terrified?” Jack grumbled. “But we could die, Bucky, we could die in five minutes or tomorrow and no one is going to give a shit about what we did because we’ll be dead. I don’t want to die without—” Jack didn’t finish talking as he’d grabbed Bucky’s jacket and was dragging him in to kiss him. 

“I thought you were angry with me?” Bucky asked, slightly stunned. 

“I thought you were scared?” Jack said in return, almost taunting, but his cheekbones were flushed a splotchy pink and his mouth was tight. 

“I—” God, Bucky was weak. It was like all sense, all fear, fled him when Jack kissed him. Just like that night in London, one press of Jack’s lips to his and he was done for, all his arguments out the window. 

When Jack kissed him again, it was a little rougher, a little angrier. Bucky swallowed a moan at the harsh scrape of teeth on his dry lips. 

“What do you want from me?” Jack growled in Bucky’s mouth. “I want to be sweet with you, but you won’t let me. It’s like you want me to hurt you.” 

“I want you to hurt me,” was out of Bucky’s mouth before he could stop himself. 

Jack groaned into Bucky’s neck as he nipped at it with his teeth. It was almost sick how well Jack seemed to know him when he also placed a hand on Bucky’s shoulder and slowly began to push down. 

They were far enough out that none of their comrades would see them, and no one would be patrolling. They weren’t close enough to the front lines to be unduly worried about an ambush. Bucky told himself all these things as he fell into a crouch and fumbled for Jack’s belt. 

This was something he’d never done before, but he’d had it done to him once and he’d wanted to try it ever since. Jack was already hard by the time his pants had been tugged down below his dick; Bucky’s palm pressed against the hard plane of Jack’s groin, pushing him back against the tree. 

“Bucky,” Jack whispered, one hand tangling in Bucky’s hair and the other fisted at his side. 

Bucky took Jack in his mouth so he wouldn’t have to respond. His eyes watched the forest for movement, though it was growing harder and harder to remain undistracted when Jack tasted like that on his tongue, like skin salt, like Jack. The weight of it in his mouth, the way Jack’s scent surrounded him when he took him all the way down, swallowing around the discomfort. He held himself down there as long as he could manage before he had to jerk off, sputtering. Jack’s fingers caught in his hair as he tried, unconsciously, to keep Bucky in place. 

Bucky nodded sharply to emulate the tug of his hair being yanked, looking up at Jack to mouth the word, _“Please.”_

Jack obliged, thank _God_ he obliged. Jack’s firm hand guiding Bucky’s head had him struggling to hide his moans as he swallowed around Jack’s dick. It was filthy, filthier than what they’d done in the apartment, at least Bucky made it filthier. He was trying on debauchery for size to see if it made him feel worse. He felt so good right now though, the tug on his scalp, the spit on his lips, Jack’s soft panting about him, it had him so hard he thought he might come in his pants. 

Where had his fear gone, his caution, his guilt? Was he so faithless that sex could dismiss them so easily? But Christ, it was hard to think when Jack felt like that. Then, abruptly, Jack’s hand stilled; he slipped from Bucky’s mouth as he pulled back and crouched down. He kissed Bucky’s spit slick lips and when his fingers were back in Bucky’s hair, they were gentle this time, pulling Bucky closer to deepen the kiss. He couldn’t bear it, he couldn’t bear the tenderness in that kiss, not when he wanted Jack like this. 

Bucky pushed Jack down so he was sitting, leaning against the tree. Bucky knelt between his knees and took Jack in his mouth again. Jack didn’t grasp Bucky’s hair again; instead, a hand rested on his shoulder, not pushing, just touching. Jack finished in his mouth and Bucky gagged and had to turn away quickly so as not to spit it back onto Jack’s trousers. Jack took his face in his hands anyways, and kissed the remnants from his lips. It was filthy, he was filthy, he didn’t care anymore. 

_It’s alright_ , he reminded himself (comforted himself) _, you’ll hate yourself again come morning. You can be damn sure of that._

* * *

He was going to die. He was going to die and the worst part was that he was going to take Jack with him. The only things keeping him upright were the rough hands hauling him to his feet, one man on each side. Their fingers hurt, digging into the tender flesh of his underarms. 

“Let go of him,” Jack howled. 

_Be quiet,_ Bucky wanted to shout, but he couldn’t even wheeze enough air into his lungs to whisper. Jack lunged at their captors, only to be smacked aside with the butt of a rifle. He crumpled like wet paper, his hand clasped over his nose as blood seeped between his fingers. 

_“Nimm ihn mit,”_ barked a voice Bucky recognized as one of the lieutenants. A brutal man who was as slow with English as he was quick with his fists. Bucky learned a lot of German very quickly the first few weeks in this hellhole. _Bring_ or _take,_ Bucky was sure that meant. 

The hands holding him up let go and he dropped to the ground, his head cracking on the cold concrete. The black spots that burst in his eyes threatened to swallow him whole and drag him down into unconsciousness. He fought to stay awake—everything sounded so hollow and distant, the clanking machinery that normally stole his precious hours of sleep hardly registered anymore. 

When he woke again, his head rested on something soft. The face looming above his was a newer one, but still familiar, a Japanese guy whose name eluded him. Bucky remembered someone jeering, asking why the Nazis were locking up their own allies, but this guy wore an American uniform. 

Bucky tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come out of his parched mouth. His throat burned and every dry swallow made him feel like he’d been eating glass. The Japanese guy noticed, his eyes widening ever so slightly. 

“Hey, can I get some water over here?” he called to their cellmates in perfect unaccented English, Bucky remembered being surprised by that. What the hell was his name…? 

“Fuckin’ waste,” someone else replied. “They’ll take him tomorrow when he can’t get up again.” 

“You asshole, he’s one of ours,” another voice growled. This name Bucky knew: Dugan, not in his squadron, but he’d been at Azzano when the tanks arrived, when Hydra had saved them from one certain death, only to condemn them to another. 

“Here, kid.” There was something cool touching his lips; it tasted harsh and metallic and the water was stale, but he still swallowed greedily. There wasn’t much, but it was enough to allow him the use of his voice again. 

“He’s right, you know,” Bucky croaked. “It is a waste. Where’s Jack?” 

He only needed to see the look on— _Morita,_ he remembered, was the Japanese guy’s name—Morita’s face to know. He screwed his eyes shut, biting his cheek hard enough he tasted blood. They’d taken Jack. They’d taken Jack and it was his fault. He wasn’t going to cry, he didn’t think he could even if he wanted to. Anger made him hot, made his skin itch as it prickled. Everyone was too close. 

Bucky sat upright and scrambled away from Morita, more mobile than he’d been all day, though it cost him dearly—he was wheezing as his lungs struggled to fill by the time he was across the cell. 

“Easy there!” Dugan exclaimed, starting towards him. 

“Stay the fuck away from me,” Bucky growled. He was a pathetic sight, he was sure, curled up on the floor, sweating and probably pale as a ghost, his hands trembling as he pointed at the rest of his cellmates. “You all stay the fuck away.” He said it like it meant anything anymore, like it wasn’t already far too late for that. He said it like he hadn’t already lost the one person he should have said it to. 

It didn’t matter in the end. The next day, when his exhausted limbs refused to move and his lungs rattled and wheezed, his captors dragged him from the cell and all he could think was that he was getting exactly what he deserved.

* * *

Bucky wished they would stop cutting him. After everything else they’d put him through, it hardly hurt, but he hated the feeling of his flesh parting, the sting afterwards, and then the warm trickle down his side. There was a neat row of scars that ran from his shoulder to his elbow, but each one seemed to heal faster, to scar less. There were thirty six scars in various states of healing, the most recent ones nearly faded altogether and the cut they’d made yesterday morning was gone entirely; the ones under it were scabbed over and flaking off to reveal fresh pink skin underneath. There was something wrong with that, something backwards and unsettling, but he hadn’t eaten anything in what felt like months and his head spun with whatever drugs they were pumping into him. 

His eyes were always heavy now, and the only thing keeping him awake was the gnawing hunger, and the remaining aches from whatever fresh hell they decided to put him through that day. His throat was still sore from screaming when they’d pumped so much electricity through him he was sure if he grabbed a lightbulb, he could illuminate his dank cell. 

No sign of Jack. He’d asked over and over again, but all it earned him were more blows to the head than he could count. With how addled he was, he was probably running preciously low on brain cells they could kill before he turned into a drooling vegetable, like the guys he’d seen dragged out of the lab as they brought him in. There was a very real possibility that Jack was dead. Jack died trying to keep him from this lab. Jack died for nothing. 

He’d lost track of how many days he’d been here. Had it been a week? A month? The days blurred together and he thought it likely they were keeping him on an odd schedule on purpose to keep him disoriented. He never slept anymore, but sometimes the pain would render him unconscious, so that was close enough. He’d seen men—good men, _his_ men—taken outside; he heard the shots. He waited for his turn. 

The man strapping him to the table was another faceless lab assistant, but the man in charge he recognized, all right, though he didn’t have a name to go with his hateful little face. Bucky hated that fat, rodent face of his, with his stupid glasses always shining the too bright lights back into Bucky’s eyes. He hated his chubby little grasping hands, hated the way he groped and pulled at Bucky’s flesh like he was checking the quality of a prize cow. Most of all, Bucky hated his voice, nasally and whining no matter what he was saying, even on the rare occasions when he spoke English. 

It was on his orders men died, Bucky was sure of it. That bastard was responsible for all the bodies they threw out back into the pits he’d been forced to dig. He’d read somewhere that war was supposed to have rules, that there were codes of conduct honorable men were supposed to follow; it was that which made them better than beasts. There was no honor here, only horror. 

The crease of his inner elbow was always sore and red, but at least it no longer looked like raw hamburger all the time. It was getting harder and harder to stay awake, though. Sometimes he’d pass out on the way to the lab and wake up in his cell with only his fresh wounds to tell him any time had passed at all.

A clear line of freezing liquid ran into his left arm; the line on the right dripped something that made his blood boil inside him. He wished he would faint. His skin was too tight as he panted and shuddered on the cold examination table; if he had not been strapped down, he might have thrown himself off it with his agonized writhing. 

Jack was gone. He’d never see Steve again. He was never going home. 

“Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, 3255703856898,” he screamed, the only words he dared let out of his mouth. It wasn’t as if they wanted anything from him, though. They’d never asked him any questions or demanded any information. 

His name, his rank, and his serial number were all that would be left of him soon, he could feel it. He was going to go mad before he died and that scared him more than the pain, more than death. God, but he’d wanted to die a man, die as himself. He’d even had a memory he was going to play as it happened, when they pressed the barrel of the gun to the back of his skull. 

The summer he was eleven, Bucky got a paper route. Steve had spent the spring holed up in bed, recovering from the worst bout of pneumonia he’d ever seen in his life; so bad, he’d been so sure Steve was going to die. He’d never had anyone die on him before, other than the neighbourhood cat he’d found after it got hit by a car. For so long after the illness ravaged his body, Steve could still barely get out of bed; his wheezy little lungs hardly carried him to the bathroom and back and Steve had been so _bored_. Bucky came and sat with him every day after his route, while Steve got stronger. 

He’d kept it a secret all summer, though Steve, perceptive little shit he was, hadn’t made it easy on him. Always asking questions he’d had to dodge, though inside Bucky was bursting to tell him. Then came the end of August when he finally snuck up the stairs first thing in the morning and slapped a package down on Steve’s bed, startling him awake. 

“We’re going on an adventure!” Bucky announced. 

Steve sat up, blinking owlishly as Bucky practically vibrated at his bedside. 

“Go on! Open it!” Bucky pressed, shoving the package into his lap. It was wrapped in newspaper and he’d had to do it himself so the edges weren’t all crisp like they were when Mr. Corelli did it at the shop. 

Slowly—so slow Bucky thought he’d die of old age before they even got to the _best_ part—Steve peeled back tape and yesterday’s paper until the last of it fell away and Steve’s eyes went wide. His mouth hung open until he found his voice to say, “How?” 

There was this sketchbook Steve had been looking at for ages, red leather cover with a snap to keep it closed and a little loop for a pencil inside. It was simple, elegant, beautiful, and expensive, but even at age eleven, Bucky knew quality when he saw it, and he knew that if anyone knew how to treat a treasure like that, it was Steve. 

“I sort of ruined the first page,” Bucky said, shrugging, his face going as red as the notebook, though he was grinning from ear to ear. 

Steve popped the clasp with a reverence usually saved for his mother’s heirlooms—like his great-grandmother’s china, or the silver hand-mirror kept on the vanity that sometimes he was allowed to polish. Inside, Bucky had drawn the second part of Steve’s ‘Thank God You’re Not Dead’ present. He’d checked with Mrs. Rogers and she’d assured him that as long as they were careful, Steve would be well enough to participate. 

Steve dropped the book and it fell into his lap with a limp slap. Bucky grinned even wider before reaching out and ruffling Steve’s hair. “I know I’m not as good as you, but my art isn’t _that_ bad is it?” he teased. 

Inside, Bucky had roughly sketched the entrance to Coney Island; in the background he’d put in as many rides as he could think of, every single one they’d seen advertised on billboards and on the sides of busses. 

“Jesus Christ!” Steve exclaimed. 

“Language, sweetheart,” Mrs. Rogers called from the living room, though there was laughter in her voice. 

“You don’t mean…” Steve murmured, hardly able to tear his eyes from the page. 

Bucky took out a zippered wallet from his jeans and jangled it in Steve’s face. “Your Ma said it was okay.” 

Steve threw his arms around Bucky’s shoulders pulling him into bed with him. Bucky’s heart pounded in his ears as his face was pressed to Steve’s skinny ribcage. Inside, he could hear Steve’s heart beating just as hard. It took some time before he recovered enough to untangle his arms from Steve’s lap to wrap them around his friend, squeezing him tight enough that it probably wasn’t good for his barely recovered lung capacity. 

“Thank you,” Steve whispered, his lips pressed to the top of Bucky’s head. Bucky barely heard him over the blood pounding in his ears. 

In his short eleven years of life, there had never been a moment so ecstatically happy as when he sat across from Steve in the teacups, their hands scrambling over each other’s as they spun the wheel, laughing so hard they thought they’d pass out. The whole time, Bucky couldn’t tear his eyes away from Steve’s pink mouth split wide into a delighted grin. 

Everything that came after hardly mattered when, for those precious minutes, they were the only two people in the world, spinning so fast the universe shrunk to a few feet across. 

When Bucky opened his eyes, he was flooded with gratitude so profound he almost began to weep. He knew those eyes, those lips, that crooked nose. Dying wasn’t so bad if this was the end—no madness, no pain, just him. 

It wasn’t real; his memory was imperfect. At the end, he saw Steve the way Steve had always seemed in his mind—big as a mountain, with the strength of ten men. He had broad shoulders and his jaw was squared out, handsome, like he’d always been, but with a body no one would be able to beat down ever again. It was a nice thought, a Steve who wouldn’t need him anymore. He wouldn’t have to feel so bad about leaving him now. 

There was a siren blaring so loud it was all he could hear. Steve’s mouth was moving—his lips formed Bucky’s name—but there was no sound but that horrible wailing. The firm hands on his shoulders felt so real. He reached up to press a palm to Steve’s cheek and he tried to speak, but his voice cracked. No sound would come out of his dry throat. It wasn’t fair, the truth wouldn’t hurt anyone anymore, he should be allowed to say it just once. It wasn’t fair. 

_I love you_.

Steve was talking again. He could almost make out words, but nothing was penetrating that racket, and the rush of blood in his ears like ocean waves. Bucky frowned up at him, and he’d better die quick because the last thing he wanted to do was cry in front of Steve, even if it was only in his head. He tried to speak again, but still nothing would come out. Steve leaned in closer and when he spoke again, his breath was warm on Bucky’s cheek, those lips so close to his. 

Bucky’s hands were weak, but not so weak he couldn’t thread his fingers through Steve’s hair and pull him down. A dead man he may be, but even murderers got to choose their last meal. If the last thing he ever got to do was kiss Steve Rogers, he didn’t think he minded the dying so much. 

**Author's Note:**

> Part One of Four, though I think all parts can be read as stand alone if you like. Special shoutout to frankoceansmoonriver on Ao3 for encouraging this madness and shell_and_bone on ao3 for being my ever patient beta who I would never finish anything without. I can't believe I care about Captain AmericanMan despite refusing to watch pretty much any Marvel Movies.


End file.
